


go ahead man, shoot your shot

by deathishauntedbyhumans



Category: Milo Murphy's Law
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Making Out, Marijuana, Mild Sexual Content, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, there’s no tag for Cavendish Is A Dramatic Bastard but god there should be, this has been a wip for almost 2 years yeehaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25156081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathishauntedbyhumans/pseuds/deathishauntedbyhumans
Summary: Dakota and Cavendish get high together.
Relationships: Balthazar Cavendish/Vinnie Dakota
Comments: 13
Kudos: 68





	go ahead man, shoot your shot

“This was… a good idea.” 

Dakota blows another puff of smoke through his lips, gaze floating a bit randomly around the room before fixing on Cavendish. His pupils are dilated, Cavendish notes somewhere in the back of his mind. The front of his mind is very much consumed by the jolt of electricity that travels down his spine at the sight, however, and he attempts to sit a little straighter in his chair, which is difficult when his entire body feels like jelly and the chair he’s sitting in has wheels. 

“I knew you would like it,” Dakota states, smiling at him. It’s a carefree smile, full of life and unaffected by the strange sadness that Dakota usually carries with him. “Y’should listen to me more often.” 

“That is…” Cavendish begins. He is going to argue. He knows that’s why he began to speak, and yet, as he stares, entranced, at Dakota’s lips as he attempts —and fails— to blow a ring of smoke through them, he finds that he has no grounds to argue. Why should he, when this has granted him the glorious opportunity to stare at Dakota, to watch without fear of Dakota noticing? “...perhaps,” he finishes lamely, faintly. He can’t stop staring. 

Dakota doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he brings the lit joint to his lips —those beautiful, perfect lips— again and sucks, taking the smoke into his lungs in a way that was very obviously practiced. He offers it to Cavendish when he’s done; Cavendish accepts it hastily and fumbles a little, his entire face going red when Dakota steadies it in his hand. 

“Careful, there,” he murmurs, seductive without trying, and Cavendish wonders if another hit will help him remember how to breathe. 

It doesn’t. 

Cavendish coughs on the smoke, chokes as it enters his lungs and escapes again with the hacking breaths. Dakota deftly takes the joint from his fingers again before shifting towards him. Cavendish isn’t sure where he’s going or what he’s doing until there’s a hand on his back, and he realises: Dakota is patting it gently, rubbing. He isn’t saying anything, but he’s coaxing him through the burn of the twenty-first century marijuana all the same. And coax him through it does; it only takes a minute for Cavendish to stop coughing again, and he notices immediately when the hit takes effect, because he suddenly leans back further in his chair without meaning to and he can’t seem to sit up again, meaning that Dakota’s hand is effectively trapped behind him between his back and the chair. 

“You good, Cav?” Dakota asks, once a comfortable silence has established itself between them again. Cavendish opens his mouth, forgets how to speak, and closes it again without saying a word, choosing to nod slowly instead. 

Dakota laughs.

Cavendish finds himself staring again, entranced by the easy way Dakota has let go in front of him. There’s no strange boundary between them, no annoyance or pretense of dislike to dissuade them from staying close. It is a stark contrast from their daily bickering, the banter that has a habit of always going one step past the line. Cavendish rather likes this. 

“Can I have my arm back?” Dakota asks, sounding amused, and Cavendish tries to move. He  _ does  _ try, he really does, but everything in his body has turned to lead and moving is a lot more difficult than it should be. He thinks he manages to shift a little, but ultimately, Dakota’s hand is still trapped behind him. He feels fingers wriggling against his back, poking at him as much as they can with their now-limited movement, but it doesn’t do much since Cavendish is absolutely unable to move off of them. 

And if he’s partially refusing to move because he likes the warmth at his back… Well, Dakota can’t prove anything. He can’t prove anything at all. 

“Cavendish, c’mon,” Dakota whines, and Cavendish huffs out a breath and tries again to free Dakota’s arm from where it’s trapped. This time, he is marginally more successful; Dakota manages to tug his arm away, and Cavendish immediately mourns the loss of the feeling of Dakota’s hand against his back. 

“You want another hit?” Dakota asks after a moment, a lopsided smirk on his face. It seems that he has forgiven Cavendish for the affront to his arm. Cavendish considers the smoking joint between Dakota’s fingers for a long moment. He  _ does  _ want another hit, if only so that he can continue oogling Dakota with some sort of excuse, but he isn’t quite sure if his body will react well to the smoke. His lungs still burn from the last hit and the coughing fit that had ensued, and he’s sure that his eyes still look like they’d been watering. 

“Yes and no,” Cavendish manages to say. His voice comes out raspy, vaguely reminiscent of Dakota’s in a way that amuses him and causes him to smile absently. 

Dakota holds up his free hand in a  _ one moment  _ gesture and brings the joint to his lips. He inhales, and Cavendish stares without abandon as Dakota’s eyes fall shut when he takes in the drug. The smokiness of the room around them does nothing to diminish Dakota’s utter beauty. The freckles on his cheeks seem to pop against his tanned skin, and his eyes, when they slide open again, are bright behind his glasses. A puff of smoke escapes in a thick cloud from between his parted lips, and Cavendish sinks a little further in his seat as he stares. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever been more in love. 

“I’ve got an idea,” Dakota states. It takes Cavendish a second to remember what they were even talking about. He hums in response and hopes that’s enough to encourage Dakota to keep talking. 

Dakota, of course,  _ does  _ continue talking. “I dunno if you’ve ever heard of shotgunning?” An easy grin spreads across Dakota’s features, and Cavendish is fully distracted by the expression. Dakota is so  _ pretty  _ when he smiles. Cavendish wonders why he doesn’t do it more often. He does smile, but it’s not always as pretty as this smile right now. The one that’s directed at him. The one turning… expectant…? 

“Cavendish? You still with me?” 

“Mmwhat?” The words come out muffled and shoved together. 

Dakota laughs and repeats the question. “Shotgunning? You heard of it?” 

Finally, the actual content of Dakota’s query makes its way through the fog currently inhabiting Cavendish’s mind. The phrase in question immediately puts him on edge despite the easy atmosphere in the room, and Cavendish schools his features into a frown and tries to sit up, pushing himself as far back in the chair as possible. 

“...Yes,” he says, as clearly as he possibly can. “Why?” Dakota, drugs, and a shotgun do  _ not  _ sound like a good combination at any moment in time, but right now, when Cavendish is just as high as Dakota is? It sounds like a  _ nightmare _ . 

Dakota cocks an eyebrow. “I was thinking we could give it a shot?” His voice rises curiously on the last few words, but Cavendish is already tuning him out, panic flashing through him. Dakota is laughing, repeating the word “shot” like it’s some sort of joke, and Cavendish is positive that he’s started explaining whatever the joke is supposed to be because he’s still  _ talking _ , but nothing is making any sense anymore. Dakota’s voice sounds like nothing more than buzzing, low and fast in his ears, and Cavendish feels himself start to shake, because he is  _ too high  _ to handle this right now. He’s always been a little concerned about some of Dakota’s stranger habits, but he’d never suspected that he would do something like  _ get high and shoot people  _ before. And if Dakota wants to try it with  _ him _ , then maybe this was all just a cover! Maybe getting Cavendish high with him was just the final decision to find his next victim! Maybe Dakota had set this all up from the very beginning: making them partners, acting like a slob so that Cavendish would never suspect him, offering this as some kind of team-building experience between the two of them. It’s all so  _ obvious,  _ now!

“Cavendish.”

And to think, Cavendish has played right into his hand! Every little thing that Dakota has ever done probably led right to this, and Cavendish… Cavendish still  _ wants  _ him! Even now that he knows Dakota is absolutely mad, Cavendish can’t seem to turn off the part of his brain that’s hopelessly in love with the man! 

“Caaav-endish.” 

_ How cruel is the universe _ , Cavendish despairs.  _ How cruel of a mistress she is. How dare she, in her infinite power, direct me into such a devious plot? Is this my fate? Is this the way that I am meant to go? Will I be remembered at all? Or will I die here, with a bullet in my chest to replace the love in my heart?  _

“Cavendish, you’re hyperventilating, man.” 

There is nothing more to it, then. If this is the way he’s meant to go, then Cavendish will face death head-on, with nothing to protect himself save for his sharp wit and his ever-vigilant intelligence. He sits up straighter in the chair, surprised to find that he has slumped over sometime in the process of thinking things through, and focuses on Dakota, who is--

Dakota is  _ very  _ close to his face. 

“Caaav-endish, c’mon, man. Snap outta it.” One of Dakota’s hands lightly pats Cavendish’s cheek, and Cavendish flails his arms, snapping his hands up suddenly to push Dakota’s away. Dakota makes a strangled, garbled sound and leaps backwards again. “ _ Jeez,  _ man, don’t  _ do  _ that!” 

“Don’t  _ shoot  _ me, then!” Cavendish snips back, his voice coming out as more of a whine than he’d meant it to.  _ So much for that sharp wit and ever-vigilant intelligence.  _

Dakota’s face crinkles into a frown. Cavendish hardly likes that look as much as the smile that had been there before. “Shoot you? I’m not--” He cuts himself off, giving Cavendish an appraising look, and then  _ abruptly  _ bursts into a round of loud, raucous laughter. “Oh, man. No, Cavendish, it’s-- Oh, you should see your  _ face _ , man--” 

Cavendish bristles. “Oh? This is funny to you, then?” With Dakota now sitting a little further away, Cavendish has room to attempt to push himself out of his own chair and try to stand. He does manage to get himself upright, but he wobbles and can’t let go of the arms of the chair. Dakota is still laughing when he stands, too —with considerably more grace than Cavendish has gathered— and reaches out, laying a hand on Cavendish’s shoulder. If Cavendish leans into it, it’s because he feels like he’s about to fall over, not because he enjoys being touched by Dakota. 

“Cavendish, shotgunning isn’t an actual-- You don’t use a  _ gun _ ,” Dakota tells him, and Cavendish blinks hard. 

“You… don’t?” he asks. Dakota giggles, but manages to control himself enough to reply. 

“No. It’s a smoking thing. It’s…” Dakota gently pushes at his shoulder, and Cavendish allows himself to be pushed back down into his chair again. “There. You looked like you were gonna pass out if you kept standing there.” Cavendish had felt like it, too, but he isn’t about to admit that Dakota is  _ right _ . Not when he’s already right about whatever this  _ shotgunning  _ thing is and can hold that above his head. “Shotgunning,” Dakota continues to explain, sitting back down and picking up the joint from where he’d dropped it into their makeshift ashtray —a glass bowl that Cavendish was pretty sure Dakota had brought from his own home in the future, because Cavendish has never seen it before today— to play with it absently between his fingers. “—is when one person takes a hit and then breathes the smoke directly into someone else’s mouth. It makes it a little easier to get the smoke in for beginners, b’cause the smoke isn’t as… hot, and ashy and stuff.” Dakota shrugs. “I did it a couple ‘a times back when I first started. Figured it might be easier for you. We don’t hafta, though, if you don’t wanna.” 

Now that he’s no longer in desperate panic mode, Cavendish finds that he needs a moment to process exactly what it is that Dakota is telling him. Dakota lets him have it, watching him expectantly, presumably to try and make sure he doesn’t completely lose it again. Cavendish might feel embarrassed if he could find it anywhere in his brain to actually  _ feel  _ embarrassed. 

As it is, he can only think about this new concept Dakota has presented him with.  _ Shotgunning _ . It isn’t what it sounds like, that’s for sure. But it  _ is  _ interesting. Cavendish has never really been one to back down from a challenge, and while this isn’t a  _ challenge _ , per se, it’s definitely something close to it. Especially given the fact that this is Dakota offering it up. 

Cavendish also definitely wants the chance to continue chasing this high, and if he can’t figure out how to take the smoke in the way Dakota does, this sounds like the next best option. Besides, how hard can it be? Dakota just has to breathe the smoke… into his mouth. That sounds easy enough? 

“Alright,” Cavendish says, and Dakota brightens in front of him. It’s subtle, the way his gaze lights up and his body loses tension Cavendish hadn’t even realised was there, but it happens, and Cavendish feels himself warm with the knowledge that he’s made the right decision. 

“Cool,” Dakota says. He scoots his chair closer to Cavendish’s once more, and this time, he doesn’t stop until their knees are lightly pressed against one another. A thrill travels up Cavendish’s spine and lodges itself at the top of his head, encouraging him to shift closer. He does, trying to make it nonchalant as he nudges his legs just a little more firmly against Dakota’s. 

Dakota is too busy relighting the joint to notice, it seems. Cavendish feels a stab of disappointment mixed with a swoop of relief that he doesn’t comment on it. 

“Alright. So I’m going to take a hit, and then I’m gonna--” Dakota leans forward a little, gesturing between them. “--breathe the smoke into your mouth, okay? Just follow my lead and it’ll be a snap.” He smiles encouragingly and Cavendish nods, suddenly breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the smoke surrounding them and everything to do with the way Dakota has entered his space. 

Dakota offers one more smile before bringing the joint to his lips and breathing it in. He holds the smoke in his lips as he drops the joint down into the bowl on the table and then leans forward, gesturing for Cavendish to do the same. He does, albeit a little awkwardly. Dakota watches him expectantly for a moment and, when Cavendish apparently doesn’t move the way he’s waiting for, reaches forward. Suddenly, Cavendish doesn’t know how to breathe again, because Dakota’s hand is threading itself gently through the hair on the back of his head. Dakota’s fingertips apply a light pressure and Cavendish goes willingly, letting him lead. And then Dakota’s lips are upon his and Cavendish opens his mouth to match what Dakota’s doing because he has no idea what else he’s supposed to do and--

\--and Dakota breathes the smoke into his mouth and Cavendish inhales and then pulls away immediately, losing more of the smoke than he manages to actually gain. He stares, wide-eyed, at Dakota, who is grinning like some kind of demon. It’s a stupidly handsome look on him, the devilish bastard. 

“How was that? I don’t hear any coughing,” Dakota says. Cavendish continues to stare at him. “Oh, c’mon. It worked, right?” He hesitates when Cavendish still doesn’t respond. “...Cavendish?” 

“I--” Cavendish is lost inside a state of shocked euphoria. Dakota’s lips were  _ on his own _ . Technically, for all intents and purposes, that was a kiss! Dakota  _ kissed  _ him! And he hadn’t recoiled in horror! This… This is a win. Cavendish wants desperately to count it as a win. 

“Are you goin’ funky on me again?” 

“No.” Cavendish finally blinks, resisting the urge to bring his hand up to his lips like some caricature of a lovestruck fool. “No, I am not  _ going funky _ .” At least he still has wits enough about him to speak like he normally does, thank the heavens. “I think… that worked better than the other way.” He hesitates, but it  _ was  _ Dakota’s suggestion… “I know how to do it, now. Could we try it again?” 

There’s no hesitation on Dakota’s end, that’s for sure. In fact, Dakota brightens once more and nods vehemently. In the moment, he reminds Cavendish vaguely of an overexcited puppy. The mental image is both… amusing and rather disturbing, given the current thrum of electricity between them, and he does his best to put it out of his head. 

This time, Cavendish is ready when Dakota takes the hit. Cavendish leans forward in preparation, his lips parted, and lets Dakota slot their lips together, taking in the smoke he exhales. Without a thought, Cavendish lets his eyes fall closed, inhaling the smoke and revelling in the careful press of warm lips against his own. The smoke is warm, mingling with Dakota’s breath and sliding its way down his throat in a way that feels much more comforting than a drug ever should. Cavendish feels Dakota’s hand twitch against one of his own, and he acts without thinking, wrapping his fingers around Dakota’s hand and holding onto it tightly. 

Something shifts between them, something that Cavendish doesn’t dare name, and they’re not shotgunning anymore. Dakota is  _ kissing  _ him. 

Cavendish can feel his lungs burning with the effort of holding the smoke inside, but he doesn’t care, because Dakota’s lips are strong and supple against his own and he can feel Dakota’s tongue tracing its way along his lower lip. Cavendish moves his lips in time with Dakota’s in a desperate attempt to keep up, but everything is foggy, and he still has his eyes shut tightly. Between the heated smoke and the intoxication he feels from merely being this close to Dakota, it’s a wonder that he can even find it in himself to react at all. The sound of a drawn out groan catches Cavendish’s attention, and he’s shocked to find that the noise has slipped from his own lips, along with a tendril of smoke that Cavendish briefly catches sight of before he closes his eyes again. 

They do have to separate a moment later, if only because Cavendish’s lungs are beginning to properly ache. He pulls away, feeling disoriented, and opens his eyes to watch the rest of the smoke curl lazily upwards from both his own lips and from Dakota’s. 

Dakota, for his part, looks  _ highly  _ pleased with himself. Cavendish can’t quite figure out how he looks so smug; it’s hard for Cavendish to even keep himself upright, at this point. But smug Dakota looks, and Cavendish realises with a start that he hasn’t actually gone far at all. In fact, as soon as Cavendish can breathe again, Dakota presses back in for another sloppy, open mouthed kiss. 

In all his life, Cavendish has never experienced euphoria quite like this. The smoke is one thing, but the way Dakota’s hands are roaming over his back with just enough force to pull him forwards? It’s unlike anything he has ever dealt with before, and he wants  _ more _ .  _ Needs  _ more. His desperate whisper of Dakota’s name when Dakota hooks his fingers just below the hem of his shirt is swallowed by Dakota’s greedy lips, and Cavendish can’t  _ think  _ as the backs of Dakota’s fingers brush against his bare skin. 

When Dakota pulls away again, Cavendish sucks in another blessed gasp of smoke-tinged air, panting heavily. He catches sight of Dakota watching him, gaze half-lidded and content. There isn’t anything accusatory in his eyes, nothing that might suggest that this is some kind of joke. 

“You kissed me,” Cavendish breathes out, like he’s been breathing out smoke for the past few minutes. 

“Yeah,” Dakota says, and he’s not  _ smug _ , but he definitely sounds  _ pleased _ . In fact, there’s a faintly dazed quality to his voice, one that matches the dreamy quality of this entire sequence of events. 

“Okay,” Cavendish says. He watches Dakota set the joint down in the ashtray on the desk behind him, watches Dakota turn back to him with that same  _ almost-smug _ dopey expression on his face. There’s really only one logical thing Cavendish can think to do. 

So he does it. 

Cavendish reaches forward, catching a handful of Dakota’s white t-shirt, and drags him forward. Dakota doesn’t fight him; instead, he goes willingly, and they’re kissing again before Cavendish can stop to think about his decision. 

The desperation of the last kiss is  _ nothing  _ compared to this. The force of Cavendish’s pull sends Dakota into his lap, and there’s a moment where they stop kissing to situate —Dakota’s knee ends up in his ribs for a moment, which is decidedly not the mood he’s going for— and then Dakota slips his legs through the slots for the arms at the side of the chair and grins and Cavendish is tugging him down, kissing him with as much force as he can muster in his hazy, daze-y state. He becomes aware of his own erection moments later, when Dakota’s crotch presses against it, and the moan he lets out is echoed, the sound loud in the otherwise silence of the room as they pant together and dive back in for another kiss. 

When Dakota’s lips fall away from his own, Cavendish whines, but his initial disappointment is short-lived. Dakota moves to his neck, mouthing at the pale skin usually hidden from the world by his suit collar. 

“You— I—“ Cavendish musters out. It feels like it takes every ounce of brain power that he possesses to even get that far, so he gives up while he’s behind. Besides, actions have always spoken much more loudly than words between the two of them. 

Somehow, Cavendish’s heavy fingers manage to ruck up Dakota’s shirt in the back, and he slides them greedily along the expanse of skin now open for exploration. Dakota makes an affirming noise and bites down on the column of his neck just above the line of his collarbone. 

Cavendish hears a wanton moan split the air between them; it takes a good minute for him to realise that the noise has spilled from his own lips. 

And the pressure between them,  _ oh,  _ the pressure between them! It builds and builds as Dakota rolls his hips down, down, down, and Cavendish bucks up, up, up into the delicious friction. He feels like a teenager, rutting against the man he loves  _ —the man he loves!—  _ like there isn’t anything better they could be doing. 

“I want you,” Cavendish breathes out, desire making the sound of his voice intimate and loud in the space it occupies. 

Dakota breaks away from Cavendish’s neck to whisper, “You have me,” and that— 

That right there is enough to push him right over the edge. Cavendish flails his arms and ultimately manages to pull Dakota down for another messy kiss, crying out into his mouth when he comes for what feels like an eternity. 

When he can breathe again, he’s panting into Dakota’s hair, and Dakota is tracing lazy circles on his bicep with his head on Cavendish’s chest. 

“You back?” Dakota murmurs, tilting his head up to grin at him. There’s a new exhaustion on his face, but this —unlike the strange, tired air that Dakota sometimes gets about him on particularly bothersome missions— is a good exhaustion, one that suggests that Cavendish was isn’t alone in the delightful orgasm he’d just experienced. 

All he does is hum in response. When Dakota laughs at him for it, Cavendish can feel his entire body wiggling with the laughter, and it warms him up in a way that their shared smoke couldn’t. 

The joint sits in its bowl, forgotten. Soon, Dakota will remember it and take another hit, and Cavendish will complain about the smoke tickling his nose, and Dakota will kiss him to shut him up again. Soon, Cavendish’s legs will fall asleep, and Dakota will massage them after nearly crashing on the floor while trying to untuck his legs from beneath the arms of the chair. Soon, they’ll sober up, but they’ll sober up together and glance shyly at one another and kiss again and again and again for it. 

But for now, Dakota merely settles in more comfortably against Cavendish’s chest, and Cavendish wraps his arms around Dakota tightly, and they’re high together, and everything is just right with the world because they’re experiencing it together. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was supposed to be longer but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ what is a sex
> 
> Kudos/comments are love! Come scream at me on tumblr @deathishauntedbyhumans.


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